


(Bad)? Neighbours

by MotherFuckingSorcery



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:54:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26185252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotherFuckingSorcery/pseuds/MotherFuckingSorcery
Summary: so uh i dont know if im going to finish this but i think its better publishing then just leaving it in the drafts forever but i dont know
Relationships: Billy Butcher/Hughie Campbell
Comments: 19
Kudos: 264





	(Bad)? Neighbours

Hughie knows nothing about the new neighbour, apart from the fact that he’s aggressively good looking. He’s all dark crisp lines and danger emanates from him like a cloud. He also has a beard. It’s instant boner material. He looks like he’s starring a porn version of the Matrix and Hughie always had a little crush on Keanu Reeves. It’s enough to make a grown man cry. Fuck, and he can see his chest through the Hawaiian shirt he’s wearing. He dresses like a dad and that in no way reflects badly on Hughie’s childhood that he finds that incredibly sexy. 

The man moves toward Hughie and Hughie vaguely registers the fact that he should be scared but the guy’s holding his hand out. He puts his groceries down and hopes to fuck his ice cream doesn’t melt.

“Billy Butcher,” he says, with some kind of cockney accent, shaking his hand with an overly firm handshake.

Hughie arches an eyebrow.

“Is that a nickname?” he says.

The alliteration and the general violence of the name does not generally bode well for the safety of Hughie’s hand and other body parts.

“Something like that,” says Butcher, with a feral grin that has just a touch too many teeth in it. 

Hughie mentally shrugs. He can’t be any worse then the meth head who used to have coked up sex against the wall and vomit in the hallways.

Hughie notices Butcher’s hard appraising stare and hopes that Mrs Fisher doesn’t come out just as they engage in eye sex, or at the very least some extended eye foreplay. 

“Well,” says Butcher, finally breaking eye contact, slapping his leg heartily, “See you around, Hughie.”

He punctuates the end of the sentence with another shiny shark grin and a bulldog that Hughie hadn’t noticed until now bounds in the door that opens and then slams shut. 

Hughie stares after them. It’s only later when he’s heating up ramen and thinking about his thesis that he realises he never told Butcher his name.

It’s two am and Hughie wants to take a shower and then fall into bed and sleep for a hundred years at least. The hallway lights are somehow broken again and one of them is flickering ominously. Hughie sighs. He just wants to get inside before the ice cream melts but before he could open up the door Butcher appeared out of the shadows, with a large bruise on his jaw and what seemed like blood splattered on his coat.

He grunts at Hughie as a way of greeting, walking to his door and unlocking it, slamming the door shut behind him. 

“Not a conversationalist, I guess, ” says Hughie, under his breath. Then he jerks off in the shower to the thought of Butcher pinning him down. He’s compartmentalising his sexual attraction and confining it to the bathroom. A dog barks, just after he comes like some kind of bad omen.

It’s another mediocre day, another mediocre piece of thesis work for Hughie. He walks down the hallway and Butcher’s already there, swearing at the door and jiggling the key.

“Pull the door towards you,” Hughie says, opening his own.

Butcher pushes the door open easily.

“Thanks,” he grunts. 

Hughie nods amicably, in what he hoped was a neighbourly way and was about to go inside when Butcher’s dog came running out into the hallway into Hughie and starts trying to lick his face and eyeballs and any other place he can reach.

“Down, boy,” says Butcher sternly, and wow, Hughie is already picturing that phrase in a very different context.

The dog immediately sits down. The dog looks up at Hughie as if to complain about the lack of attention he was receiving. Hughie understood immediately and pats the dog on the head. The dog closes it’s eyes in contentment.

“Hm.”

“What?” says Hughie, from where he had crouched to pat the dog.

“Well, he hasn’t tried to rip your fingers off. He must like you.”

Hughie looks up at him in alarm as Butcher was scratching his chin thoughtfully. Surely, he was exaggerating. Hughie lookd at the dog. It’s eyes were solidly closed and there was a string of saliva dripping from it’s panting mouth. 

“You just let me pet him even though he could have ripped my arm off?” says Hughie, with just a small amount of panic in his voice.

“Relax, that’s only happened twice.”

Butcher leans back against the wall, tucking one of his hands into his pocket, exposing his latest hawaiian monstrosity of a shirt.

“Twice!?”

“Hughie, don’t be a cunt,” says Butcher, walking back to his apartment. The dog looks up at Hughie adoringly as he scratched the top of his head.

“Terror!” 

The dog skitters across the floor into Butcher’s apartment and the door shuts behind him. Hughie sighed and goes into his as well, flicking the light on and dumping his bag on the side. He collapses into bed and falls asleep almost instantaneously, the light still flickering dimly in the background.

The next time Hughie sees Butcher, he’s arguing with a short, tanned man who has a thick french accent.

“We can’t do this without the computer,” shouts the French guy.

“Listen Frenchie, we’ll find a way, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” says Butcher, looking tired.

“What’s wrong with your computer?” interrupts Hughie, before he can stop himself.

Both men turn to look at him. 

“I mean, I could probably help. I worked in a tech shop for four years,” Hughie continues, mainly to save himself from the awkward silences that are so common with neighbours.

Butcher looks at Frenchie who shrugs. And that’s how Hughie finds himself in Butcher’s apartment, looking at Butcher’s computer, Terror snuffling at his legs and Butcher looking over his shoulder.

“Okay,” asks Hughie, spinning round on the chair, “I don’t want to sound patronising, but have you guys turned it on and off again?”

They stare at Hughie in disbelief. Terror licks a wet stripe up Hughie’s leg.

“I’m gonna take that as a no,” says Hughie, rebooting their computer.

The home screen loads quickly up and Hughie grins at Butcher, whose jaw is still slightly slack at the ease at which he had fixed their problem.

Well. Hughie had always been good with his fingers. He just wished that the people who had said that to him had been in his bed rather than in the tech shop. 

“Anything else you need fixing?”

“No,” says Butcher, scratching his magnificent beard, hesitating, “Thanks, Hughie. You’re a good lad.”

Hughie shines with praise all the way back to his apartment. A sexy man with a beard affirmed his morality and he has a pint of knock off Ben and Jerry’s in the freezer. Life is good.

Life is not good. It is three in the morning and there is a thumping bass booming from one of the apartments on the floor above. It’s so loud he can taste the sound. Hughie walks up there to politely ask them to turn their music down and if that doesn’t work out, being a floor up will help when he throws himself off the balcony. He turns the corner and is assailed with the sight of Mr Butcher holding up the noise offender by his lapels and shaking him with unbridled rage.

“Listen here, dipshit,” says Butcher, as Hughie gets close enough to hear, with the kind of feral look only seen in nature documentaries, “You’re going to turn it off and you’re never going to play music at this time ever again or I’m gonna take your boombox and smash your bloody face in.”

Butcher drops the guy, who slides to the floor and crawls back into his apartment. Hughie feels less sorry than he should for him. The music stops.

“Tosser,” spits Butcher, contemptuously over his shoulder, making his way down the hallway in purposeful strides.

“Alright, Hughie?” says Butcher clapping him on the shoulder as he passes.

Hughie scrambles after him.

“Thanks for telling that guy off,” manages Hughie, looking up at Butcher.

“I’ll do more than tell that cunt off if he plays his fucking music again.”

Hughie pretends not to hear that.

“So you gonna go to bed now?” 

“No,” says Butcher, climbing the stairs two at a time, “I’ve got work to do.” 

“What do you do for work?”

“Security.”

Hughie follows his figure as he opened his apartment door and shut it in Hughie’s face. Hughie stands there for a second in disbelief as Butcher reappears with a duffel bag and fucks off down the hallway. Hughie has been there for a few slack jawed moments when he hears a yip at his feet. 

Well. Butcher seems to have forgotten something. The dog gnaws on Hughie’s trousers as a gentle act of defiance as he stares up at him. Hughie sighs. And lets the dog into his apartment, where it has already begun leaving hair on his sofa.

**Author's Note:**

> so uh i dont know if im going to finish this but i think its better publishing then just leaving it in the drafts forever but i dont know


End file.
